


Hope sees a star

by lobstergirl



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, Choices, Hopeful Ending, Immortality, M/M, Mortality, No Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He comes to him in his dreams. They kiss… and then he turns to dust in his arms.</p><p>Such is the fate of mortal men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope sees a star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/gifts).



> In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.   
> (Robert Green Ingersoll)

 

_He comes to him in his dreams._

_His smile extends to his grey eyes and deepens the wrinkles around them. The sunlight catches in his hair and dances across the silver streaks, caresses his skin and gives it a warm, golden hue. Underneath the simple tunic is a body that is trim and in its prime, with strong, broad shoulders, slim hips and strong legs. His hands are broad and calloused from hard labour. He knows they will feel rough on his skin, but not unpleasantly so. Far from it._

_He hears him, too. His pleasant, melodic voice, a little husky. His laugh – he throws his head back when he laughs, exposing his throat, inviting to lick and kiss. And oh, that little sound he makes when their lips touch, that small moan, a little surprised and full of need. Then there’s the sighs, and the panting. The hoarse shout._

_They kiss, and there is nothing but starlight around them. No armies, no despair, no destruction. Starlight and the smell of wood and the feel of soft ground underneath their feet._

_They kiss… and then he turns to dust in his arms._

_Such is the fate of mortal men._

******

 “… it’s not right for a man to be alone, my lord,” the servant was saying as he handed the king a damp cloth to wipe his face.

For a fleeting moment, Bard wondered whether it was customary for servants to comment on their masters’ marital status and whether Thengel of Rohan or Ecthelion of Gondor had to put up with things of that sort, too. Probably not. Bard of Dale had not risen to the throne through a royal bloodline alone nor could he lay claim to following a long and noble tradition of stewardship. Yes, he descended from the line of Girion, King of Dale, but he had been elected by the people after the city had been rebuilt and a leader was needed. Why not turn to the man who had successfully led them through a battle, had given them hope after Esgaroth had been destroyed and who happened to have slain a dragon, too.

The city was now prospering, Bard was getting more and more comfortable with his duties and so the question whom he would choose to be his queen was one of the favourite topics to be discussed in the taverns and on the market place. Or was it to be a prince consort? Nobody knew for certain where the king’s preference lay but as Bard already had three children, succession was secured and if it was a husband the king wanted instead of a wife, no-one would dare oppose. The few voices speaking out against this possibility quickly got laughed out of the room for who would want to tell the Dragonslayer whom to share his bed with?

“Thank you for your concern, Elion,” Bard said. “When the time is right, I will make a choice. But now,” he inspected his chin to see if the blade had caught all whiskers or if there was stubble left, “now is not the time.” Satisfied with what he saw, he stood up. “Now it’s time to meet the Elves.”

He reached for his embroidered overcoat but Elion cleared his throat disapprovingly. With a sigh, Bard stopped and stood back, waiting to be helped into the garment. While he appreciated many of the small things that now made his life easier and more comfortable, being dressed was not one of them. More often than not he ignored his servants’ frowns and clucking and slipped into his clothes unaided. Not today, however. He would not meet the Mirkwood delegation with his buttons done up wrong or his hair untidy, not the Elves with their elaborate braids and shimmering robes and spotless armour.

Especially not if there was even the slightest chance of seeing _him_ again. Tall and beautiful. Unyielding. Haughty. Cold. Made of starlight. Except… his lips had been anything but unyielding. His kiss had been anything but cold. Heat was what he remembered. Mutually shared desire, and mutually shared regret when it had ended all too soon.

Bard felt his own lips curve into a smile. How could he choose a queen when the memory of an Elvenlord’s kiss made him wake up in the middle of the night, wanting so much he hurt? And not just any Elvenlord but Thranduil. King of the Woodland Realm. Ruler of Mirkwood. Mightiest and fairest of the Wood-Elves with eyes as clear as a winter sky and hair as pale as the moonlight, with a voice that –

A discreet cough brought him back into reality.

“You look every bit the king that you are, my lord,” Elion said, offering him the simple golden band that was his crown. “No need to feel nervous. They’re just Elves, after all.”

“Thank you, Elion,” Bard said with a smile, “I feel a lot better now.” He waited for Elion to adjust the crown until it sat to his liking, threw one last critical glance at his reflection in the looking glass, straightened his shoulders and nodded. “I’m ready.”

 

Thranduil stood in the middle of the great hall, flanked by his most trusted warriors and guards. None of them was in armour but all of them were carrying their swords and bows, as was their custom. It was a demonstration of respect rather than distrust as the Elves did not wish to convey the message that the Men of Dale were unworthy opponents, easily overpowered. The contrary was the case. King Bard was viewed as an equal, a fierce fighter and a noble warrior. Dragonslayer.

The city of Dale had made significant progress since Thranduil’s last visit and the king’s palace was starting to resemble a palace, too. A small and relatively modest one but a palace nevertheless. Far too unassuming by Elvish standards but he was fairly certain Bard would not have it any other way because he…

… was just entering the hall, and Thranduil raised his chin and stood a bit straighter if that was at all possible, for Bard the Bowman was no longer. In his stead stood King Bard of Dale, tall, regal, handsome. Gone was the unkempt hair, the untidy bun, the worn coat, the old boots. The man standing before him was clad in an exquisitely embroidered coat of the palest green, black breeches and black boots that were polished to shine. No jewellery other than a golden ring with a green stone on his left hand, and the simple golden crown in his dark hair. He didn’t need anything else; he radiated authority and confidence, humility and strength. A worthy king.

Thranduil bowed.

“My lord Thranduil,” Bard said and bowed in return. Ah, but that voice had not changed at all. Neither had the smile in those clear grey eyes ceased to make Thranduil’s skin tingle. “It has been too long. Mae athollen. Êl síla nan lû e-govaded vín.” _Welcome back. A star shines upon the hour of our meeting._

His Elvish was accented and hesitant, but it was correct. Thranduil smiled, placed a hand above his heart and inclined his head.

“Guren linna le cened,” he replied. _My heart sings to see you_. Strictly speaking it was too personal a reply for the occasion, but the smile wrinkles around Bard’s eyes deepened which made it just right. “I have seen you have made great progress rebuilding your city and it pleases me greatly. Allow me to congratulate you.”

“Thank you.” Bard stepped back and gestured for Thranduil to accompany him. “Please, let me show you around and introduce those who have played such an important part in shaping the kingdom and continue to do so.”

“I should be honoured,” Thranduil replied politely and joined him.

He spent the most part of the afternoon listening to names, titles, stories and accepting thanks from those who had fought beside the Elves in the Battle of the Five Armies and now wished to exchange a few sentences with their mighty king. The lifespan of men was short and they placed such importance on small things, and so he bent the Elvish rules of etiquette, smiled and returned compliments to those who had fought and to those who had helped rebuild the city, even allowed a battered veteran to clasp his hands and stammer his gratitude in a shaking voice. The discomfort he experienced at the excessive display of emotion was softened by the warm smile in Bard’s eyes.

Then, finally, court protocol was satisfied and Thranduil followed Bard outside to be shown the king’s private gardens, where he withdrew when he wanted to be alone and think, or spend time with his children.

There they sat down beneath an old tree, one of the few that had survived the dragon’s fire. The entire garden was based around it, making it its centre, and the old tree basked in the attention it got. Thranduil felt its happiness and it made him happy, too.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air held the the scent of the flowers that were in full bloom and above them, the leaves rustled with a soft evening breeze. It was quiet, and it was peaceful. Not too long ago, all of this had lain in ruins.

“You know,” Bard said in a light, conversational tone, “I dream about you. Every night, I dream about you.” He looked straight ahead, eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the distance. “You come to me just like you did that night before you left, and you kiss me. I kiss you back and you turn to starlight in my arms and I can’t hold you.” He turned his head to look at Thranduil. “Why is that?”

Thranduil met his eyes.

“I dream about you too, Bard of Dale,” he replied. “And you turn to dust and I can’t hold you either. I tried to find out what it means and when I couldn’t, I tried to forget you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t want to.” He reached for Bard’s hand and twined their fingers. “I look at you and I think of the Edain. You have their noble bearing, their dark hair and their grey eyes and I wish you were one of them.”

“The ancestors of the Dúnedain?” Bard smiled. “My historian was able to trace my roots back to Cirion of Gondor but it’s not a direct line. Seems Cirion had an illegitimate sister and that sister, my ancestor as it seems, married a Pelargir shipwright. So I guess there’s noble blood in my veins but it’s watered down since then.”

“Pelargir?” Thranduil asked, incredulous. “You are aware that Pelargir was founded by mariners of Númenor?”

Bard frowned. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing. Not yet. But will you allow me to take a closer look at your lineage? I believe my scribes have access to documents far older than those of Gondor.”

“Please do. It would make old Telfrinn so happy.”

Then Bard kissed him.

Thranduil stiffened in surprise but it lasted less than a few heartbeats. It felt exactly as he remembered. It felt even better for it was neither a memory, nor was it a dream. Bard was very real, his body a warm, solid presence against his own. He smelled of sunshine and leather, as if he still spent more time outside with his bow and arrows than inside with scrolls and a royal court’s amenities, and when Thranduil put his arms around him to pull him closer, he felt hard muscle shift beneath his hands. That hadn’t changed, either.

He smiled against Bard’s mouth.

“Are we truly alone here?” he whispered without really breaking their kiss.

“No-one but us,” Bard whispered back, pulling back a little. “With my men and your warriors guarding the main entrance and the back, I should hope so.”

“Good.”

And he pushed Bard’s coat over his shoulders. The exquisite garment fell to the ground, as did Thranduil’s robe. Bard fumbled with the tiny buttons of Thranduil’s tunic, cursing under his breath, and Thranduil chuckled and stilled his hands.

“Patience,” he said. “We have both waited so long for this moment. Let us not spoil it by rushing into it.”

“Says you,” Bard huffed. “You have all the time in the world, being immortal and all. Forever means nothing to you.”

“Forever is such a harsh word,” Thranduil murmured against the hollow of Bard’s throat. “I am here, with you.” He kissed Bard’s pulse. “Now. Let’s not talk about forever.”

No more words were needed the instant their naked bodies touched, as if their hands and lips had a memory of their own. Thranduil’s hands skimmed along Bard’s skin that was every bit as warm as he remembered and his chest hair felt coarse against Thranduil’s cheeks. Bard had hair on his chest and belly, and on his arms and legs, too, not too much, not repulsive, not beastly, just enough to remind Thranduil that he wasn’t one of the smooth-skinned Elven lovers he had taken and it excited him to be reminded of the difference. He arched into Bard’s touches and moaned into his kisses, and when Bard closed his hand around them, bringing them together, he cried out and cared not whether the Men and Elves standing guard over their privacy might hear him.

 

When the Elves rode off a few days later, the rumours that Bard of Dale had chosen stopped being rumours for when it was time to say their farewells, the Elven-king kissed the Dragonslayer before his Elven guards and for the whole court to see, and those versed in the Grey-elven tongue strained their ears to catch Thranduil’s words before he turned his horse around.

“Le melithon anuir.”

_I will love you forever._

******

_He comes to him, and his smile extends into his grey eyes and deepens the wrinkles around them. The sunlight catches in his hair and dances across the silver streaks, caresses his skin and gives it a warm, golden hue. His body is trim and in its prime, with strong, broad shoulders, slim hips that meet his own with each upward thrust and strong legs that he likes to wrap around him. His hands are broad but no longer calloused, but their grip hasn’t softened. Far from it._

_He hears him, too. His pleasant, melodic voice, a little husky. It breaks when they climb towards the summit and it turns hoarse when he gets close. The strong column of his throat, there to lick and kiss. And oh, the sounds he makes. The sighs, the moans, the shouts, the begging and the tight whimpers when he can take no more._

_They kiss, and there is nothing but starlight around them. No armies, no despair, no destruction. Not anymore. There’s starlight and the smell of wood and the feel of soft ground underneath their bodies._

_They kiss… and he lets himself be held in his lover’s embrace. His warm, solid embrace._

_Such is the life of those who have chosen._


End file.
